


Tattered and Torn

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Kink Meme, Psychological Trauma, Torture, Warning for descriptions of wounds, also for sorta implied incest, and sorta implied pseudo-incest with a reincarnation, just all the normal stuff you'd expect from this film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the JA kink-meme prompt:</p><p>"So Jupiter has to watch while they torture Balem for a while, unable to stop it because this is How Things Are Done. The expectation is that she's going to sentence him to death after this, for murdering her in her past life, and attempting to murder her recently. </p><p>Of course, by the time they're done torturing Balem, Jupiter feels such pity for him that she spares his life. Which just horrifies Balem because he expects far worse fates in store for him in the future if she won't even grant him the mercy of death after what he's just gone through." </p><p>[Now with sequel: "Piecing It Together"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tattered and Torn

“Are you alright, Your Majesty?”

 

Jupiter slowly shook her head from left to right, a movement so small that only Caine was able to pick up on it. In turn, Jupiter felt more than heard the tinniest growl emanating from behind her. Neither of them were okay. Neither of them could do much about it.

 

So much for being an all-powerful Queen.

 

The news had come while they’d been spending an otherwise idyllic afternoon at Stinger’s: finally, after weeks of searching they’d uncovered Balem’s body beneath the refinery’s wreckage. At least, that’s what the crew had assumed at first glance. It took them a few minutes to realize that the mangled thing they’d found was still breathing.

 

“How does anyone _survive_ that?” Jupiter had asked, head planted between her knees. Perhaps not the most politically sound position—showing such weakness in front of her… subordinates? Employees? Space-staff?—but it was either that or throw up all over Kiza’s shoes. Her friend and her friend’s adorable sandals didn’t deserve that. Besides, they all knew what Balem had done to Jupiter. No judgment there.

 

“Implants, Your Majesty.” Stinger had said, his face lined with anger if not surprise. “Most Entitled have them. The inserts that connect us to our weaponry? Same basic concept. Only these activate when the body goes into shock, releasing a steady supply of ReGenX into the bloodstream. So long as the Entitled doesn’t die on impact then it’s a near failsafe for survival.” Stinger let out… not a hiss. A buzz; like an angry bee’s wings slicing through the air. “Lord Balem didn’t hit bottom then.”

 

“And he had enough ReGenX hoarded in his implant to survive the last few weeks,” Caine added, his own frame shaking.

 

“Is that the implant you’ve been pressuring me to get?” Jupiter asked the floor.

 

Caine’s body stilled. “I… yes, Your Majesty. It is.”

 

“Fantastic.” Jupiter had risen then, pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail. She’d snatched at the mountain of reports pertaining to this resurrection.

 

“Well, at least we know it works. So what exactly are we going to _do_ about it?”

 

It turned that there was actually very little for them to do. Jupiter had assumed that Balem’s survival would mean the return of his wealth which, frankly, she could have cared less about. Credits and a wardrobe of pretentious clothes? Let him have it. The only things she’d planned to fight for were his seeded planets and, oddly enough, Chicanery. The rat splice had come running to Jupiter after Balem’s supposed demise, essentially begging her for a position—if you could term clipped words and expressions layered with complex meanings as ‘begging.’ Jupiter had been fully ready to send him on his way when Caine, looking very much as if it pained him to do so, quietly reminded her of two things: that few had been capable of saying no to Balem Abrasax… and that a splice without a master was a pitiful thing indeed. All it had taken then was for Jupiter to note the sweat stains growing underneath Chicanery’s arms for her to reluctantly say yes.

 

All things considered, she’d grown kinda fond of him.

 

So yes, Jupiter would have fought… except there wasn’t anything to fight for.

 

“The refinery’s surveillance was unparalleled, Your Majesty.” Chicanery had said. He’d pulled a face then, still grieving for its loss. “I fear that it had to be. Harvesting is a lucrative but seedy business. All sorts will attempt to, ah… water down the ReGenX, if you will. To increase profit. Not that your family has ever attempted such a thing! Still. Standard procedure dictates that manufacturers record the process, so that they can defend the creation of their product in a court of law. The refinery’s systems were particularly specialized given… well. Given Earth’s crop.” Chicanery sighed, not liking Jupiter’s darkening expression. “What it means, Your Majesty, is that we recorded your entire confrontation with Lord Balem, including the part where he confessed to murdering Lady Seraphi.”

 

“Plus trying to kill her again, sorta. Trying to kill you,” Kiza had added. She shrugged. “An Entitled and a Recurrence? He’s screwed.”

 

Chicanery grimaced. “A crude way of putting it, but yes. Lord Balem is very screwed.”

 

So here they were.

 

Jupiter shifted uncomfortably on her throne, a chill running through her that had nothing to do with the ship’s cooling systems. ‘Court of law’ had been going a bit far. There were no true courts in this empire—at least none that resembled a democracy. No, as far as her people were concerned, the Abrasaxs were the only law the universe had or needed. So what were they to do when an _Abrasax_ broke the one decree that they couldn’t overlook, the killing of an Entitled?

 

Why, send him to the rest of course.

 

Kalique had looked the very picture of grief that day, tearfully claiming that they couldn’t _possibly_ force her to punish her dear, elder brother. In truth she’d been snatching up what hadn’t directly passed to Jupiter with one hand while blowing her nose with the other. Titus was no better. At least he hadn’t bothered to fake any tears. He’d shrugged before the media, cooling claiming that the Abrasax Balem had harmed should be the one to declare a sentence. Since the death of his mother was largely the reason behind this fiasco in the first place, her recurrence would just have to have that power instead. The fact that Jupiter received an obscene number of flowers two days later with a note— _Consider this an almost wedding present_ —made her think that Titus was really planning to enjoy seeing Balem prostrated before her.

 

Jupiter just wished she was half as excited as he was.

 

“It will be quick,” Caine murmured. In the long minutes they’d been waiting he’d slowly been edging closer, offering a solid comfort at her side. “They will punish him and then you’ll order his execution. Simple. I can get you back to Earth in time for your family dinner.”

 

Jupiter gave something approaching a smile. The thought off food made her stomach churn though.

 

“Caine…” There were guards lining each side of the throne room and Chicanery stood just a few feet away. Jupiter lowered her force to a just breath, relying on Caine’s ears to pick up her words.

 

“What if I can’t kill him?”

 

“Your Majesty doesn’t need to kill him personally.”

 

“No, I—” Jupiter swallowed. “I mean what if I don’t want him executed at all?”

 

Caine’s eyebrows jumped. It was the most shocked expression she’d seen on him in a while.

 

“You… don’t?” he asked.

 

“I don’t know!” Jupiter hissed.

 

“… you nearly beat him to death with a pipe.”

 

Okay. True. Though defending herself from an oedipal-psycho out to kill her in turn was a little different from this. Sitting on a throne. Decreeing who lived and who died. It made Jupiter feel like a god.

 

_I create life… and I destroy it._

It made Jupiter feel ill.

 

Some of this must have read on her face because Caine broke tradition and dropped straight to his knees beside her. Only Chicanery seemed to notice, giving an anxious twitch to her right.

 

“Think about what he did,” Caine said, low and urgent. “Your family. Earth. He should have died when the refinery fell. That’s all you’re doing now. Finishing a job.”

 

Jupiter gave a shaky nod as Caine rose quickly to his feet again.

 

The doors were opening.

 

The hall was ridiculously long and it gave Jupiter plenty of more time to think as Balem and his guards approached. She knew she had to get her emotions under control. Stinger had confirmed that Balem had healed fully in the time since his rescue and—captured or not—he was a danger. The last thing she needed was his flouncy hands and smug expression goading her into doing something she’d later regret, manipulating her. She’d keep her head down, her voice indifferent, and get this over with in time for dinner. Just like Caine had said. 

 

Except… as they got closer Jupiter realized that they weren’t marching Balem towards her.

 

They were dragging him.

 

At first Jupiter couldn’t tell why. Half standing from her seat, she stared at the approaching figures: two winged guards, three times the size of anyone else there, tugging a limp Balem between them. Even with his head bowed and a good distance still between them, Jupiter could tell that this was a far cry from the Balem she knew. He was naked, his hair lank and covering his face, his body shaking so hard that they could all hear the rattle of his chains as they brushed the glass floor. Jupiter couldn’t see any injuries though. There was just a red sheen to his body, almost like a rash.

 

Then the smell hit.

 

Jupiter threw both hands over her mouth and nose, gagging horribly. Beside her Caine paled until his skin became nearly translucent.

 

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” One of the guards called. It jerked Balem when his legs tangled and Jupiter thought she heard a small cry come from the form. “We’d meant to hose him down a bit more before bringing him to you but he kept passing out under the spray. Didn’t want to present you with a drowned corpse, now did we?”

 

The other guard chuckled—or the approximation of a chuckle, like rocks tumbling through a dryer—and Jupiter shakily sat back down. She jumped when Chicanery appeared at her shoulder. Even naturally pale as he was, he now made Caine’s current pallor look like a tan.

 

“Your Majesty—” he began.

 

“ _What is_ —?” Jupiter gagged again when her words forced that smell back down her throat. It was feces and urine, no doubt of that, but overlaid with a sweetness that made her whole body tighten.

 

“Here.” Caine returned—when had he left?—and gently pressed a patch into the bare skin of her arm. Jupiter gasped in relief as a purple mist sprung up and she breathed in a lavender scent. Chicanery greedily leaned into the field to breathe there as well.

 

“Your Majesty,” he coughed. “It’s scaphism.”

 

“Dumb it down for the human girl.”

 

“Torture,” Caine said simply. He stood outside Jupiter’s little space air freshener thing and his hands were twitching like he too wanted to cover his nose. “It’s an old form. I think you’ve used it on Earth. The Punished is set between two hollowed trees, everything but their chest exposed, and left to rot.”

 

“Rot?” Jupiter pressed.

 

Chicanery grimaced. “That sweetness you smell is honey, Your Majesty. It’s painted on the Punished to attract all manner of insects which, depending on what is indigenous to the planet, may sting, bit, burrow, or actively feed on the victim. They are also forced to ingest a mixture of milk to… stimulate the bowls. The waste attracts more insects until…”

 

“They’re eaten alive,” Caine finished. “Or they die of disease. Or sunstroke, if they’re lucky. Starvation, if the captor decides to stop the feedings. There are a lot of options.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Jupiter could see it now. The guards had nearly traversed the hall and the ‘rash’ along Balem’s body was clearly no rash at all. It was a massive patchwork of stings, scratches, bites, and sunburn. As he came closer she could make out portions of his flesh that had literally been eaten away. A spot on his back seemed to move—like something was still buried under there—and Jupiter prayed that it was just a trick of the light.

 

“All your technology,” she whispered. “And _this_ is what you do to people?”

 

“He got off easy. Couldn’t have been out there for more than two days.” Even Caine didn’t sound convinced though.

 

“Your Majesty!”

 

Jupiter jerked when the first guard hailed her. It tossed Balem directly before her throne.  

 

She looked down at the quaking figure. Balem had yet to lift his head, but he seemed to be rubbing his cheek against the floor, emitting a rhythmic whine from the very back of his throat. It had really been the perfect choice, Jupiter thought. Not the torture itself—for she would bet Balem that had never experienced pain like that in all his thousands of years, the first hour alone must have broken him—but the humiliation of it all was genius. To take a man clothed in starlight and strip him bare; a man who crossed the expanse of space and confine him to a log; a near immortal left to stew in his own waste; a so-called god who viewed all other creatures as beneath him… and allowing those same creatures to feast on the young, flawless flesh that he coveted. Forget the first hour. Balem probably broke in five minutes flat.

 

“Did he scream?” Jupiter found herself asking. The question was more of a horrified certainty, but the guards took it as genuine interest.

 

“Oh yes, Your Majesty,” the second one said, all eagerness and fluttering wings. “For a while at least. Voice gave out at the end of the first day, but I bet you I can get it back if you’d like.”

 

She’d thought the brown leather about his waist was a belt. Instead the guard unfurled a whip as long as its wielder was tall. It appeared to be normal leather, until a button along the handle shot out a thousand tiny spikes. Jupiter didn’t need anyone to tell her that the green she saw shimmering along the tips was poison.

 

“Not enough to kill, Your Majesty,” the guard reassured. “It’s a potent cocktail though. Adds an extra zing to the proceedings if you will, along with a dose of paralysis. Unless Your Majesty would prefer him writhing. Your wish is my command.” The guard turned a dial and the lime green faded to a mossier coloring.

 

“My wish,” Jupiter said slowly. “Is to know why you started without me.”

 

Both guards stilled. “Your Majesty?”

 

“Why did you torture him without me present?”

 

They looked between one another and then the first guard grinned a toothy, perhaps sheepish grin. “Our sincerest apologies. We were simply warming him up for you. I assure you, Your Majesty, there is still much to we can do for your entertainment.”

 

But Jupiter’s expression was ice cold, her body still as marble upon her throne. To all present she looked exactly like a queen who was furious that they’d denied her the beginnings of this pleasure.

 

Caine knew her better.

 

He passed behind her and as he did he turned his head, speaking so that only she could hear:

 

“Twenty-five lashes, Jupiter. At least.”

 

The sound of her name made her eyes sting—almost as much as the number itself.

 

 

Jupiter rose slowly from her seat, choosing to ignore that her legs had turned to water. She ignored the trembling figure at her feet too.

 

“I am displeased,” she said and both guards winced. “You have ‘warmed him up’ enough. I had hoped to engage in… other activities, but you’ve made that impossible.” Just behind Chicanery two other guards shared lewd glances and Jupiter did her best not to scream. “Give him twenty-five lashes and then leave me. I want time to play with him alone.”

 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” The second guard bowed, but not before Jupiter caught the look of disappointment on his scaly face.

 

The first gazed at Balem like he was a particularly tasty piece of meat. “And when should we return for your sentencing?” He asked.

 

Shit, shit, shit.

 

Jupiter tried waving a languid hand. “I’ll send a servant to fetch you. I don’t know how long I want with him.”

 

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

 

While this was going on the second guard had approached Balem and pulled out a series of disks. Placing them on the floor, Jupiter watched as a set of metal poles rose up, complete with manacles at the top and spaced about five-feet apart. The guard grabbed Balem by the scruff of his neck and strung him between the poles with as much care as you’d chuck laundry onto a line. When he stepped back Jupiter’s stomach dropped.

 

Oh _shit_.

 

She’d thought—hoped—that Balem had passed out during their conversation. He’d certainly been still enough. Now though he hung, just as limp, but with a gaze peaking out beneath a fringe still matted with honey. Anger, fury, madness… any of these Jupiter could have dealt with.

 

Begging was another matter entirely.

 

For Balem’s eyes were begging, as surely as the guard was now lifting his whip. Jupiter wasn’t this creep’s mom, but hell, she’d have to have been carved out of stone to ignore that look. Whatever remnants of Balem’s dignity that survived his fall, torture had eaten it away along with his flesh.

 

“Puh—puh— _pluhees_ —” Balem’s lips were almost too swollen to speak. Jupiter knew what he was saying though. They all did.

 

“Would Your Majesty like to count?” the guard asked sweetly.

 

Jupiter had to turn her head away. “… One,” she whispered.

 

The crack of the whip was followed by a high-pitched squeal. So much for Balem’s voice being gone. Jupiter didn’t need to look at the guard to know he was raising his feathers in a satisfied preen.

 

“Two.”

 

Jupiter’s eyes found Chicanery’s as Balem gave another hideous cry. The lawyer was standing resolute, though whether it was because he’d grown used to seeing such displays or because he actually enjoyed seeing his former master like this, Jupiter didn’t know. Caine for his part was watching _her_. He might have hated Balem as much as any splice, but he hated his queen’s reaction more. Caine’s gaze jumped to the prostrate form guiltily.

 

_You have to watch, Jupiter._

“T-three.”

 

Jupiter managed to look at the floor that time and her jaw clenched at the flecks of blood there. When she spotted bits of skin mixed with the droplets she heaved, quickly turning it into a cough.

 

“Is the scent field too strong, Your Majesty?” Caine asked.

 

“Yes… yes a bit.”

 

“Allow me to adjust it for you.”

 

Jupiter wanted to kiss him when he leant over her arm and fiddled uselessly with the patch. His broad shoulders blocked the scene through lash four.

 

When Caine stepped back though there was nothing left but for Jupiter to look.

 

Balem was openly crying now, tears and snot running heavily down his face. She hardly noticed though, what with his back in the state it was in. Even turned from her Jupiter could see the flaps of skin hanging in ribbons along his spine. The skin around his wounds seemed to quiver and Jupiter could just make out rivets of green spreading out along his limbs like veins. Whatever poison the guard was using was obviously causing pain throughout Balem’s whole body, as if his back weren’t enough on its own. She watched his chest heaving, jumping up and up like a jack-rabbit, and Jupiter knew with certainty that if this went on she wouldn’t need to call for an execution. Balem had been strung up crucifixion style and at the rate he was succumbing to shock, he’d quickly suffocate himself.

 

“Five,” the guard whispered, ignoring Jupiter entirely. She didn’t know how they were only on lash five. Balem’s back already looked like raw meat. There was nowhere else to strike.

 

Except that the guard seemed to realize this as well. With sickening relish he pivoted and lashed the whip across Balem’s front. Jupiter realized what was about to happen a second before the spines cut into his genitals.

 

“ _ENOUGH!_ ” Jupiter shrieked.

 

Her own shout overlapped with Balem’s scream and their chest heaved in time. Jupiter was so focused on his torn form that it took her a moment to notice the stares.

 

“Your Majesty?” the guard questioned. The others shifted uncomfortably.

 

“That is…” Jupiter sucked in a fortifying breath. “I grow bored of this.” She said, imbuing as much indifference into the words as she could. “You’ve done enough. Leave the rest for me.”

 

“… as it pleases, Your Majesty.” The guard’s expression soured. He passed by Balem and as he did his spiked tail whipped out, catching Balem’s pale ankle dangling inches off the floor. It tore the skin about two inches across and that tiny cut—so insignificant in the larger scheme of it all—nevertheless made Jupiter seethe. She made sure to turn the full force of her glare on the guard as he attempted to hand her the whip.

 

He spluttered when she wouldn’t take it. “Your Majesty?”

 

“Didn’t you hear?” Jupiter hissed. “I said I want to be _alone_ with him.”

 

“But—”

 

“Out!” Jupiter swept her hands violently to encompass the whole hall when the rest didn’t move. “All of you, you heard me, _GET OUT._ ”

 

At that they tripped over feet, wings, and tails to reach the doors. Jupiter stood tall amongst the chaos until the last had run the length of the hall. Then she scrambled down from her throne on shaking legs. Only Chicanery and Caine remained to see her stumble.

 

“I must say,” Chicanery said faintly. “That was perhaps the most benevolent use of the Abrasax temper that I have ever seen.”

 

“Get him down, get him down,” Jupiter ordered.

 

Caine was already there. He snapped the chains around Balem’s wrists with ease and caught the lithe body when it fell. Balem was having none of it though. With a strength and a scream that shocked Jupiter he tore himself from Caine’s arms, hit the glass floor, and managed to roll back towards the supports. One hand grasped weakly at the metal beam, tugging, almost as if Balem were trying to hide himself behind the thin strip.

 

“Doh, _doooh_ ,” he growled.

 

“Don’t,” Jupiter finished. “Don’t touch him.”

 

Not knowing what else to do, three of them stood in silence while the fourth heaved against the floor, alternating between whimpering and bleeding. It took Jupiter an embarrassingly long time to get her own breathing under control and to finally signal to her advisors.

 

“Right. Okay.” Jupiter spoke softly, even though Balem’s eyes had glazed over; he didn’t appear to be seeing them anymore. “Caine? Do me a favor? Head back to Earth and… and tell my family I’ll be missing dinner.”

 

Immediately his wings folded flat against his back, allowing him to hide them under any decent-sized jacket. He produced a well-worn cap for his ears and a thick choker to cover the brand on his neck. Jupiter tried not to think about how the accessory, plain as it was, reminded her of Balem’s high collars. The Entitled’s own neck was bare now, long and lithe as a swan’s. Irrevocably bent.

 

“Your Majesty.” Jupiter jumped when Caine put a hand to her elbow. His eyes were a roar of emotions now, but Jupiter thought that one mixture in particular—perplexity infused with pride—dominated. She’d seen it enough in the months they’d known each other. It was the look he gave her whenever she did something not quite queenly (which happened a lot) but was probably a good thing nonetheless. Like when Jupiter defended the many splices around her as company rather than slaves, or chose boots over slippers because they were easier to run in, or treasured her cousin’s crappy Christmas gift even though there was a staggering amount of wealth waiting above her head, right among the stars…

 

Or how she might deliver mercy upon the one person least likely to deserve it.

 

Not that Caine said any of this aloud.

 

“I’ll have Stinger prepare a bedroom,” he said instead.

 

Jupiter understood his line of thinking. She wouldn’t be able to face her family and their ignorance for a day at least, but she was already shaking her head.

 

“I don’t think I can stand the smell of honey right now,” she admitted.

 

Caine sucked in a breath. “Of course, Your Majesty. A hotel then? You’ll… ?” Want to be on Earth.

 

Jupiter nodded. “Yes. That’s great. But try to pick something within my price range, yeah?”

 

The joke fell flat. Not that Jupiter expected anything less with Balem curling into a motionless ball behind them.

 

With a final stroke to her arm Caine activated his boots and was sailing out across the hall. Jupiter turned to Chicanery who was already typing away at a padd.

 

“Mr. Night, you’ll—”

 

“Find a way to pull you out of this legal hole, Your Majesty? Spare Lord Balem an execution without losing you standing across the entire galaxy?” His twitching face snapped up, one hand still tapping away. “That is what you want, yes?”

 

“You disapprove?”

 

“It’s not my place to approve or disapprove,” he simpered. “Merely advise.” As Chicanery passed her by though, Jupiter saw him nod—a subtle acceptance. It was probably the closest thing to a real opinion that she’d ever get out of him.

 

Within a minute he too was gone.

 

Which just left Jupiter alone with Balem.

 

He was still curled in on himself, looking for all the world like some beaten, feral beast rather than the god-like entity she’d grown used to. He’d curled himself into a similar position when she’d struck him down with that pipe, only that time he’d lifted his head, spewing words when blows eventually failed him. If Jupiter thought that seeing him reduced to such a state permanently would feel fulfilling… she was very, very wrong.

 

“I did community service once,” she said softly. Balem flinched. Slowly, Jupiter straightened and pulled the silk shawl from her shoulders, stepping lightly towards the bowl in the corner of the room.

 

“This was back in high school,” she continued, still almost-whispering. “It was a requirement for everyone. Go out and complete… ten hours? I don’t remember. Not too much. But I got assigned to a retirement home and I absolutely _hated_ it there. I was already helping my mother—” Balem flinched again, “—out with the houses after school, so it wasn’t the labor that bugged me. It was the people. It felt wrong there. Not because they were old, and not because they needed help either. It was because they were old and they needed help and they just wouldn’t _accept_ that.”

 

Jupiter took the bowl in hand, approaching Balem once more. When she was just a few feet away she set everything on the floor and breathed a few times through her nose. Then she dipped the edge of her shawl into the ReGenX.

 

“I wanted to help them,” Jupiter said. “With bathing, eating, walking… whatever it was. But their pride always got in the way. Some of them outright resented it—resented me—for trying.” She help up the dripping fabric and Jupiter’s eyebrow rose. “Are you really going to let me compare you to a group of stubborn Earthlings?”

 

When she edged even closer Balem’s whole body went stiff and then he gasped, hyperventilating through the pain. He shook, a few tears still escaping down his cheeks, and Jupiter thought she could hear the grind of his teeth. Balem didn’t move though. Not away. Probably he couldn’t anymore. Whatever the reason, Balem held still as Jupiter pressed the ReGenX into the torn skin of his back.

 

“There you go,” she murmured, unconsciously. “Easy, easy.”

 

It was slow going. Jupiter could only cover a few inches at a time and she had to return her shawl to the bowl continuously, filling the ornate piece with blood and tattered fragments. She almost wished for one of those spray-cans Stinger kept on hand, but Jupiter didn’t think that speed was something they needed right now. Balem was slowly relaxing under her hands as his back was knit together, and then as his arms lost their hideously red hue, then his legs. By the time Jupiter ran the fabric over his genitals, Balem was healed enough to gaze at her under hooded eyes. By the time she finally reached his swollen lips, Balem was almost lounging on the floor beside her.

 

The first thing he said was, “It cost you thousands of lives to heal me.”

 

Jupiter reared back, something like fire roaring up behind her eyes. “Not very smart of you to remind me of that now,” she snapped. “Not in the position you’re in.”

 

“Position?” Balem tilted his head, not _quite_ looking at her. “What more can you do? You’ve already condemned me to a life of torture, have you not? You’ve denied me my execution. So tell me, Mother.” Balem listed forward, staring at Jupiter’s feet. “How much longer before you grow tired of our game? How much ReGenX will you waste in putting me back together?”

 

Jupiter stumbled away but Balem seemed not to notice. Or not to care. (Or perhaps he wasn’t surprised). The longevity of his words sent a prickle down Jupiter’s spine and she sat back up with a new, frightening determination.

 

“I’m not going to torture you,” she said. Not anymore. “And I’m not your mother.”

 

Looking away, Jupiter pressed the intercom wired into her neck.

 

“Caine? Yeah, I—… yeah. I’m okay. Really. Listen, get another room at that hotel, okay? We’re gonna have a… guest. Right. No yeah, I will. Seeya.”

 

Signing off, Jupiter turned back to Balem. He was still poised on the floor, but the position now showed itself to be just as much of a shield as his curled ball had been. Balem’s hands were shaking erratically against his thighs and he had his chin tilted upwards in a childishly defensive pose. He wasn’t staring through Jupiter anymore, but his eyes were filling up with a cautious reverence that worried her just as much.

 

With a sigh Jupiter carefully wrung out her shawl and draped the dry half across Balem’s shoulders. Leaning over him, she made sure to tuck the ends safely beneath his arms.

 

“I’m not your damn mother,” Jupiter told him.

 

And as she worked, she heard it: “… I know.” The words were barely a whisper, far softer than anything that had come from his ravaged throat before.

 

“Mother never did anything like this.”

 

 

 


	2. Piecing It Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hours after staying Balem's torture, Jupiter finds herself in an agony of indecision. 
> 
> What does she do with him now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crawls out of the abyss with a sequel I promised MONTHS ago* 
> 
> In all seriousness though... I'm really unhappy with this. Like, I wrote this about six times, playing around with different endings, rewriting scenes, hating them, not coming up with anything better... so yeah. I'm giving up on this, but here's the 'final' product for anyone interested. 
> 
> Sorry XD

 

There was something deeply unsettling about seeing Balem Abrasax curled on the stiff sheets of a hotel bed, dressed in nothing but the standard issue robe. It was far worse than seeing him naked. Hell, Jupiter would have almost preferred that. The Balem of her nightmares always wielded his body like a weapon—as did Kalique, certainly Titus—and nakedness was just one more defense he could draw from his armory. Bare chest, bare feet, a covered neck that infused mystery with royalty and turned the body part positively erotic. It was a game that he—they—played with sickening relish. A game Jupiter had yet to learn. One she wasn’t sure she wanted any part of.

 

This though… this wasn’t the nakedness of choice, nor the sign of a broken, bleeding man. Balem was poised somewhere between the two states, with his body covered and his eyes bearing too much. Jupiter stared at Balem’s long, white toes hanging over the bed’s edge and something within her clenched.

 

Well. One thing was for sure, white certainly wasn’t his color. It made the paleness in his cheeks stand out and the bruises under his eyes look like craters. Even ReGenX couldn’t erase all that.

 

It might not have been so bad if he’d do something other than _stare._ Not at Jupiter, thank god. She was hiding in the suite’s bathroom, watching Balem’s reflection in the ornate mirror (so much for ‘inside my price range,’ Caine). In fact, he’d barely moved at all since Jupiter had bundled him up and shoved him there; just breathing evenly in and out, sometimes arching his back like a lazy cat. For a man who’d just been beaten bloody and still faced possible execution, Balem was acting remarkably calm.

 

Too calm. Too calm by far for Jupiter’s liking.

 

Something had to give.

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

Chicanery’s voice came directly after the hum of a transporter, depositing him in the bathroom’s massive tub. He blinked, scowled down at the tile, and clamored his way out with one hand still fiddling with a collection of PADDs. He opened his mouth and then snapped it back shut when Jupiter raised a hand for silence.

 

“Look at him,” she whispered.

 

Chicanery looked and within seconds he was looking away. He’d been engineered without an Adam’s apple, but Jupiter could still see his throat muscles tightening as he struggled to swallow. He suddenly became inexplicably interested in the sink.

 

“Is he in shock?” Jupiter insisted. “He hasn’t moved since we got here…” she checked her phone, a puff of surprised breath escaping. “ _Three hours ago_. Three hours! I’ve read the Rules of Conduct in that tub twice now and pruned my hands from washing them so damn much.” Jupiter raised her fingers as evidence, still looking into the mirror. “Did you know that in the case of Injured and Punished parties, I have _complete_ control? I can repeal the execution. I can even punish those goons for torturing Balem without my express permission. Should I do that?” She let out a startled, ugly laugh. “What would I even be punishing them for? Doing their jobs? _Enjoying_ it? That’s great right? Punishing the ‘innocent’ ones and rescuing the guilty.” Jupiter suddenly leaned her head over the skin’s bowl, feeling faint. “I’m gonna be sick. Oh fuck. What is he doing?”

 

“Sitting, Your Majesty.”

 

“ _Fuck_.”

 

They stood there another long minute until Chicanery gave the smallest, most hesitant cough.

 

“You still wish to stay the execution order?” He asked. Despite the subtle strain in his voice, when Jupiter turned to look his face was as stoic as ever. Indifferent. Supposedly.

 

“You have stopped nothing yet,” he said. “Not officially. Everything is still in place if you wish to…”

 

Jupiter stared, more through Chicanery than at him. “How is it done?” she whispered.

 

A wince. Ah. That answered that.

 

“In cases such as this, Your Majesty saw the beginnings of the execution.”

 

“They’d torture him to death?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Or?”

 

“You could opt for a more humane method. Science has devised numerous solutions for stilling the mind and the body. Some are even said to be remarkably pleasant for the Punished.”

 

“Or?”

 

Chicanery sighed. “Or you call for the execution’s repeal. Formally.”

 

“And then what?”

 

“That, I can’t answer for you.”

 

Of course not. Because that would be too simple.

 

Jupiter turned again to the mirror, watching Balem, attempting to calculate as only an Abrasax supposedly could. He was still as a statue atop the covers—still as the dead. He hardly seemed to breathe. For just a moment Jupiter fantasized that it was already done: she’d killed the one person in her life who unquestionably ( _maybe_ ) deserved it and now he sat in her room like some sort of sick trophy, held up by invisible strings. Balem existed only as a nightmare of her past, for her to gaze at or push aside as she pleased.

 

Then his eyes flashed up and caught Jupiter’s in the mirror.

 

With a stuttering gasp Jupiter stepped back, trodding over Chicanery’s foot. The eyes and the solid weight wrenched her back to the horrible here, the unquestionable now.

 

“Can he hear us?” she asked.

 

“No.” Chicanery delicately stepped to the side, separating himself from her. He pointed to a miniature disk embedded in the floor and briefly Jupiter was sure it was the crucifixion the guard had used. For just a second she heaved.

 

“Your dog set up privacy wards between each room. Lord Balem can see, but not hear us.”

 

“His name is Caine,” Jupiter said, but it was a distracted instinct this time around. Her thoughts were still on Balem; what he could see through the sliver of open door and what he might be thinking. Jupiter didn’t even realize that Chicanery had closed the space between them until he whispered, soft as a breath:

 

“If Your Majesty worries about Lord Balem’s _feelings_ in such matters, then the matter is already settled.”

 

Gently, Jupiter shut her eyes.

 

Right.

 

“Cancel the execution,” she whispered. “Formally.”

 

Chicanery already had a glowing datapadd out and extended it towards her. Jupiter couldn’t help but notice that the other two tucked under his arm bore the marks of financing and jurisdiction respectfully. Her mouth tightened into what might have been a smile, or the beginnings of a snarl.

 

“You didn’t even bring the paperwork on going _through_ with the execution, did you?”

 

Chicanery shrugged. “If Your Majesty had decided on another course of action, the necessary forms were easily retrieved.”

 

“You presumed.”

 

“If I did?” he challenged. “Advising does require a certain number of assumptions which, if I may be so bold, I am quite good at. Is Your Majesty proving me wrong?”

 

Jupiter chewed on the inside of her cheek for all of three seconds—thinking of Balem striking her with a pipe, thinking of his bare feet curled over the bed— before she said, “Gimme.”

 

Chicanery led her through the process, which was as long and arduous as Jupiter had expected. In between pointing out where to sign and gently tilting her wrist so the sensor could pick up on her seal, he kept up a steady litany of explanations.

 

“I’ve left your reasons for this decision as open as possible, Your Majesty. Not that you technically need to give a reason at all. This is one of the few instances, however, where I believe that remaining vague may be in your best interest. Let the people come to their own conclusions. Many will assume that you spared Lord Balem for his political ties—keeping him alive may indeed prove to be an advantage—while most will presume that death is too kind an end for him. Either assumption works in your favor.”

 

“How—” Jupiter cleared her throat. “How in the world is that an advantage?”

 

“You’re _kind_ , Your Majesty.” Chicanery said and left it at that.

 

Jupiter knew what he was saying though. It was the same thing that Caine and Tsing and Stinger and even Kiza had pulled her aside to explain in hesitant, stuttering words: she was nice, and no one survived an Entitled’s world with gentle hands and a genuine smile. It was the fear that sometimes filled Caine’s eyes whenever Jupiter laughed too easily or played the part of a snobbish queen too well. How to find a balance? Stay true to herself and risk the world she was, supposedly, born for? Or pretend to fit in and risk waking up one day, only to discover that she _did_. What then?

 

The passage of time didn’t escape Jupiter’s notice either. How _long_ could she keep up such a game? How long before she gave up completely—either way?

 

Maybe Chicanery was right. Let them all presume that she’d kept Balem alive for some horrible, torturous purpose… but never actually torture him. A lie. A veneer. Surely that was a compromise of sorts?

 

So then why did Jupiter feel so cold?

 

She looked through the mirror. Balem was sitting. Still and silent.

 

Was she torturing him still?

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

“Y-yes?” Jupiter jumped slightly, Chicanery’s dry fingers tapping at her wrist.

 

“One more,” he said.

 

The final form looked, to Jupiter’s eyes, exactly like all the others: long, dense, filled with italicized phrases in languages definitely not native to Earth, the entire thing backlit by a pale blue light. With deft hands Chicanery scrolled to the bottom until a space emerged, just large enough for her to place her wrist. With the feeling that she was sealing her own execution rather than staying another’s, Jupiter slowly pressed her skin against the PADD’s cold screen.

 

When she pulled back there was a copy of her seal glaring forth.

 

“Done,” Chicanery said. He tucked it away, whether to lessen the moment or ensure that Jupiter didn’t change her mind, she couldn’t know. _Could_ she change her mind? Was that even a possibility now—technically or morally?

 

What had she just _done_?

 

“You saved a life,” Jupiter heard and she jerked when she realized she’d said the last bit out loud. Chicanery avoided her gaze.

 

“Yeah. But what kind?” She asked herself.

 

“Not one I would have saved,” Chicanery said and then immediately raised a hand when Jupiter paled. “But, Your Majesty…” he swallowed. “That may well tell you that you’ve made the right decision.”

 

“Oh you are not that self deprecating,” Jupiter snapped.

 

“Perhaps not,” Chicanery snapped right back. “But it is nevertheless the truth. I by no means enjoyed Lord Balem’s… predicament, but I cannot say that it changed my overall feelings for the man. If he _is_ a man. I could not have let him live, I could _not_ , and I do not relish the thought of serving him once more after we—after I—I thought—” Chicanery suddenly cut himself off, dragging in a sharp, shuddering breath. “Your Majesty,” he murmured. Deferential, apologetic.

 

“I get it,” Jupiter said. Her throat felt raw and ragged, like she’d been the one screaming for hours that day. “When… _if_ anything comes of this, I promise you won’t have to interact with him. You’re my advisor now. Not his. That doesn’t change.”

 

“With your pardon, Your Majesty, everything has changed.” Chicanery pierced her with an almost pitying look. “ _Something_ must come of this. Unless you still intend to kill him yourself. An ‘accident’ perhaps? None would blame you.”

 

As one they turned to look through the mirror. At Balem.

 

Jupiter understood that the possibility was there. Hell, with all her power it would be beyond easy: a bit of pleading to Caine, the right order to her Sargons, even a simple push out this seventh floor window. The creatures that had once covered up her hit could hide her own crime. But Jupiter knew she couldn’t do it and it wasn’t just a generalized, ‘I prefer not to kill people, thanks.’ Balem wasn’t ‘people.’ He was a murderer in his own right, someone who Jupiter could argue was a threat—both personally and objectively. And yet…

 

Yet he wasn’t any of these things either. Not now. Not _then_. Beaten, sobbing men weren’t in a position to threaten your family. Still-as-statues men in bathrobes weren’t plotting the fate of your planet. Balem was, simply put, not the Balem of before.

 

And Jupiter couldn’t kill this Balem.

 

“No,” she said. “He’s safe here.”

 

“I am vastly relieved,” Chicanery drawled. He drew a thin hand down over his cheek. “Your Majesty, I must get these to the proper authorities. Your signature is only good for an hour or so. Security purposes, you understand.”

 

“No, wait,” Her head whipped back to Chicanery. “What am I supposed to do?”

 

“Keep your head low. When news of this hits I cannot say how the public will react—to say nothing of Lord Titus and Lady Kalique. I must admit,” Chicanery gave a dry, horrible chuckle. “It helps that you’ve chosen a hotel. Most will believe that you have only staved the execution temporarily for… ah, personal pleasure—”

 

“No,” Jupiter growled it a third time, ignoring the imagery and her own flaming cheeks. “I mean what am I supposed to _do_? You can’t just leave me here with him!”

 

“You’ll have to be left alone with him at some point, Your Majesty.”

 

“Do I?” she challenged.

 

“Shall I call a Sargon for you?”

 

It was a tempting offer... but one that Jupiter could see the consequences of far too easily. Pack one of them into her room mere hours after two had beaten Balem to a bloody pulp? Especially when, to her at least, all the Sargons looked alike? Maybe humans all looked the same to them and maybe, after thousands of years with them as bodyguards, Balem could tell them apart... or maybe he couldn’t. Either way, Jupiter couldn’t risk it. She wouldn’t.

 

The fact that she was again putting Balem’s own feelings ahead of her own...

 

What was happening?

 

“Your Majesty?” Chicanery was waiting patiently, gaze resting respectfully somewhere around her knees.

 

“Go,” Jupiter commanded. She tried to infuse as much confidence into her words as possible. “Really, Chicanery, it’s... fine. Caine will be back soon anyway. Just go turn in the forms and then—then take a break. We all need it. Don’t worry.”

 

“I’m not worried,” he said, stepping delicately back into the tub. He pressed a jittery finger to the comm behind his ear and a second later particles began swirling in earnest. Chicanery finally looked up at her right at the last second.

 

“You’ve done exceptionally thus far, Your Majesty,” Then he was gone.

 

And Jupiter was alone.

 

With Balem.

 

That’s what it felt like—alone _with_ Balem, like he was an entity without a personality, without a soul.

 

She was sure a part of it was his age. Jupiter herself had undergone huge changes within three decades alone—from the minor self-loathing of teenage years, to self-respect, to self-regulated boredom, to the knowledge that she was a freaking space queen—and she had no doubt she’d undergo numerous more in the seventy, maybe eighty more years that she’d live. But Balem? All that was just the blink of an eye to him; a mere grain on an unfathomable beach. How many personalities had he used up and discarded? Turning and turning and turning... how long before you stop changing completely? How long until you just... exist?

 

Jupiter may as well have had a puppet sitting out on her bed. Except that puppets didn’t leave cold trails of shivers down your spine.

 

They didn’t shriek and beg and call you mother either.

 

Jupiter sighed, leaning her head against the sink and grinding it there. At least they’d gotten past that. (Supposedly). From the throne room to the ship and from the ship to the hotel, Balem had spoken only once. It was when she’d bundled him into the robe, partly to offer a sense of comfort, mostly just to cover up the injuries that, while technically gone, she could still see too clearly in her mind’s eye. Balem had let her dress him, had sat where she told him to sit, and staring off at something just past her shoulder had said only, “Jupiter.”

 

Jupiter had fled to the bathroom soon after.

 

“You can’t stay here all night,” she hissed to her reflection; the one in the porcelain of the sink, not the mirror—she couldn’t look through the mirror again just yet.

 

Execution? No. Rehabilitation? Ha. Jupiter laughed until a thin string of saliva fell into the sink. What a ridiculous option. How long did it take to come back from that? This place where Balem resided? Longer than it took to get there, if it was even possible at all. The next eighty years—if Jupiter even had that—wouldn’t be nearly enough, and who was to say she could trust anyone to continue the work after her death? After Caine’s? Stinger’s? Even Chicanery’s?

 

Jail had the same issues. What prison would hold him that long? What sentence did you give an Abrasax? Who was to say Balem wouldn’t encounter beatings of the same sort inside those walls? And eventually, Balem would be set loose on the universe once more.

 

“You’re talking about him like he’s a Disney villain,” Jupiter snapped, but in a way he was. He was worse. Balem wasn’t out for total power or complete control… he just… was. He existed. Jupiter didn’t know what he wanted. So far as she could tell, he acted this way because he _could_.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck.” Jupiter pounded her hands against her thigh, still keeping low so Balem couldn’t see. “Okay. You did it. It’s done. Now what are you going to _do_? Caine… Caine. Focus on Caine. Okay… Caine’s with me. With me. Learning to love himself. Yes! More cheesy Disney. Who the hell cares, it’s true. He’s _learning_. Stinger! Singer is learning to trust Entitles again. Or at least me. That’s something. Right? So… Balem. Balem…”

 

Could Balem learn too?

 

Jupiter looked up, peeking, daring to gaze back through the mirror. Balem was still sitting, his wounds healed in all but the hunching of his shoulders and the tick around his eyes. She knew this was dangerous—letting his vulnerable image now distort her perception—but for just one second Jupiter thought, hoped, that maybe Balem could change too.

 

There was a knock at the door.

 

“Coming!”

 

Automatic. Her voice couldn’t pierce through the bathroom’s wards. Jupiter straightened herself instead, rushing out and passing the bed with her head as high as she could force it. She could feel Balem’s eyes on her, his own back straightening in response to her arrival, he fed on her image as Jupiter lunged for the door.

 

“Caine,” she said, laughing in relief.

 

He immediately pushed her aside, gently, one arm laden with pungent Chinese. Jupiter went, allowing Caine to scan the doors, windows, and ceiling. His gaze finally landed on Balem, nostrils flaring, the lowest of growls issuing forth. Caine sniffed the air like he could detect whether there had been any evil in his absence. Maybe he could. Jupiter knew that at the very least she must smell of indecision and fear.

 

“Did he hurt you, Your Majesty?”

 

Hurt her? Could you hurt someone without moving or saying a word? Jupiter thought it was possible. Still, she shook her head.

 

“I stayed in the bathroom. Like you said. Chicanery—” Jupiter suddenly cut herself off.

 

“Ahh,” Balem rose. Not to his feet, but simply in stature and confidence.

 

He rolled the robe until it sat kingly on his shoulders; tilted his head so the marks around his eyes looked like royal makeup. Balem drew in a breath.

 

“You did it, didn’t you?” His voice was even more of a whisper, the faintest rasp. “You stayed my execution. How human!” Balem let out a laugh. More of a cough, a hiccup of humor that willingly ran from his body. “Not the most satisfying ending, I’ll admit. How poetic it would have been, to come into this world at your command, and then leave it by your hand as well...”

 

“That’s enough out of you,” Caine growled.

 

“What will you do _now_ —?” Balem got out, before Caine was upon him. Jupiter opened her mouth to yell (yell what? To _stop_ him?) but Caine merely pulled something from the second brown bag he carried. Chinese dropping to the floor, he lunged and caught a collar around Balem’s neck. The leash—what Jupiter thought was a leash, thick black metal interwoven with blue wires—was knotted firmly around the bedpost, Caine’s thumb coming down on what Jupiter recognized as a biometric lock. He stepped back.

 

Balem opened his mouth, his face contorting in a furious, narcissistic expression that Jupiter had seen once before, but the moment breath touched his lips he jerked, electricity shooting through those blue wires and into his collar. It was like a feedback loop, the energy in his collar feeding the energy in his leash, Balem’s whole body jerking.

 

“Stop it!” Jupiter shrieked.

 

It ceased abruptly. Balem lay panting on the bed.

 

Caine’s hand was suddenly at her back, reassuring, grounding her, diminishing the screams Jupiter could hear, echoing in her head rather than issuing from Balem’s throat. She leaned back, and though Caine was there to hold her weight, Jupiter noted that his eyes were still on Balem, cold.

 

“No more torture,” she whispered. It was an order, plea, and a past promise all rolled into one.

 

“That’s entirely up to him, Your Majesty.” Caine’s fingers twitched against her. “The name is unpronounceable on your tongue, but most refer to this in English as a training collar. It’s a good name. It _trains_.” Caine’s voice had gone as cold as his eyes. “See the markings there? Hard language to read, but they’re basically settings. I’ve set it all the way to ‘speaking.’”

 

From the bed, Balem glared fiercely.

 

“In simple terms, Your Majesty, he can’t speak without our permission. The collar is coded to voice and term recognition. The second it senses the intent to speak without first reading one of our consent…” Caine made another gesture, this one sharp and then jittery: electricity. “It keys into his complete physiology too. Tensing muscles indicative of an attack? Zap. Flood of adrenalin? Zap. Anything at all. He can’t hurt you now, Your Majesty. You’re _safe_.”

 

Jupiter didn’t feel particularly safe. She could see it now though, by means of the change. Before, Balem had been tense, subtly so, while now his entire body was quite deliberately limp. He was spread eagle on the bed, panting shallowly, the image of vulnerability, with pale legs exposed through the slit of the robe. The rest of Balem’s limbs were languid. Jupiter stared at a bruise embedded in his thigh, one she’d missed during the healing, as it glared starkly out along the relaxed muscle.

 

It occurred to her then that Balem wasn’t really relaxed. Of course not. Balem was so focused on _not_ tensing and setting off the collar that he’d tensed psychologically instead. His relaxed posture was dangerously deceptive.

 

Balem was there. On a bed. Half dressed, but for a collar. Seemingly relaxed and just waiting for Jupiter to speak.

 

She swallowed bile. The only thing that staved off anger was that Caine’s hand—still pressed just by her shoulder blade—was shaking from the same image. There was only disgust dusting his features—certainly no satisfaction—and there was a recognition in Caine that Jupiter had to acknowledge. He knew this collar. Well.

 

“Untie it,” she compromised. “Turn it down,” and she gently pushed Caine forward. He went, obeying her order even as Balem remained prostrate before her. It was too much, and Jupiter turned away from them both.

 

“I’m just gonna put this away,” she muttered.

 

‘This’ ended up being far more than Jupiter had expected. She grabbed the dropped bag of Chinese—surprisingly heavy—and opened it to find pretty much everything she’d ever expressed a taste for. Jupiter put the greasy bag on the table with a fond pat.

 

As she did, Jupiter saw Balem sitting up in the corner of her eye. She saw Caine backing away, Balem beginning to smile, and decided to leave the room entirely.

 

There was more food out in the hallway. An employee passed by, and though his tilted chin and iron suit said he was too well trained to comment, his eyes slid to the drooping grocery bag and the sweating 12 pack of coke.

 

Jupiter ignored him and his loud sniff. Her attention was on the thin package pushed up against the wall.

 

She knew what it was instinctually. It was wrapped safely in her mom’s quilt, the colors looking distorted in the hallway’s light. Jupiter pulled aside the fraying edges to uncovered her telescope.

 

“I thought you might need it tonight.”

 

Caine’s voice didn’t startle her. Jupiter’s hands lay on the warmed metal and she looked up with a shine in her eyes.

 

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Help me set it up?”

 

He did, and they spoke quietly as they worked:

 

“How’d they take it?”

 

“It’s just dinner, Your Majesty.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“… They’re understandably upset. They’re asking about you.”

 

A laugh, slightly wild.

 

“You know, I was actually thinking about telling them. Soon. But not now. Not with…”

 

“You’re in control, Your Majesty.”

 

“Really.”

 

“ _Yes_. The collar—”

 

“Then why don’t I know what to _do_?”

 

The leg of the telescope locked in with a sharp ‘snap.’

 

One kept the silence. The other followed her lead. Finally, the first sighed.

 

“What’s he doing?”

 

“… Sitting.”

 

A snort. “Of course.”

 

Silence. Heavy lifting.

 

“You should eat something.”

 

“Oh hell no. I’m sorry. You bought so much—”

 

“Your Majesty. It’s… okay.”

 

They stood, leaning together, the now standing telescope poised between them. Caine rocked forward until his forehead fully rested against Jupiter’s. He had to bend so far to get there, making it awkward for them both, but Jupiter hardly cared. Kinda liked it, in fact. She reached forward through that remaining gap and drew them fast together.

 

“I need to leave again,” Caine said. He sounded pained. “Stinger needs to be informed, and the comms—”

 

“Aren’t reliable.” Jupiter nodded against his skin. “Anyone could listen in. Chicanery gave me the lowdown on keeping this quiet. What about those sargorns?”

 

“Taken care of.”

 

It sounded sinister. Maybe it was, but Jupiter thought of Balem hanging and squealing, the pleased flash of teeth right before he arched again—and she found that she didn’t particularly care about their fates.

 

Right now, she only had enough energy to be concerned with her own. And with Balem’s.

 

Together they moved the telescope, hands on either side, gliding it through the door, across the lush carpet, and out again, into the warm air of the balcony. Jupiter was glad that Caine was on the left. It allowed his shoulders to block out Balem as they passed, and all Jupiter saw was the ceiling and then the stars. She immediately pressed against the lens and breathed in… out.

 

“I’ll be back,” Caine said. Jupiter heard the hum of his boots.

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

She hoped it was true.

 

Caine took off and for the first time that night Jupiter was truly alone with Balem. She ignored that knowledge for a time, the first hour at least, doing nothing more than looking to the stars— _her_ stars—and continuing to breathe. When she turned the scope towards her planet, Jupiter strained to find evidence of the damage. Impossible of course, at least from this distance, but she knew it was there: the obsidian spires, the remains of gears, harvesting equipment laying broken, abandoned, if not forgotten.

 

It was a blight. All of it, and suddenly Jupiter stood. Her knees ached and the ring around her right eye throbbed furiously, but she straightened nevertheless. Jupiter turned with every intention of marching back inside, feeding off her anger as she went.

 

She turned to find Balem.

 

“ _What are you doing?”_

 

Jupiter’s heart was up in her throat, her stomach somewhere near her ankles. She demanded it of Balem, Balem who was just _standing_ there, his collar and leash trailing behind him. How long had he watched her?

 

She’d watched him all night long. Perhaps Balem was just returning the favor.

 

Standing and sitting… but he was moving now too. Jupiter froze completely, watching as Balem’s hand moved languidly through the air, drawing lazy circles and spirals above his head. His pale skin was stark against the darkened sky, nearly sickly, though the arm it held tightened with healthy muscles—strong, immortal bones. Balem cast his eyes towards Jupiter even as his fingers continued their dance. The bee never stopped moving either.

 

“I’m living,” he whispered, rolling his shoulders. “Wasn’t that your intention? Your plan from the start? Look, even this simple creature recognizes my existence.” Balem breathed in deeply, almost like he could taste the bee on the air. “What a mindless little thing it is, all on its own, drawn by our collective genetics into the dead of night... Two royals in such a small place… it must think it’s lucky. Quite the opposite in fact.” Balem stretched his neck as he stared at Jupiter. His collar clinked. “This creature will die without its hive.”

 

“What—?”

 

With a white flash Balem’s hand shot out and caught the bee, crushing it between his fingers. The violent motion sent a surge of electricity through the collar, just enough that it forced Balem’s hand to release, and Jupiter watched as a mangled shadow fell at their feet. It was such a small thing, yet it brought bile rising up through her throat. Jupiter gagged, not only for the tiny life sputtered out before her, but also for the life of the one who’d taken it.

 

Balem.

 

Had she truly bathed this man’s wounds? Used the essence of others to heal him?

 

Heal _this_?

 

Jupiter saw Balem in the moonlight, stark and truthful. There was no more pain to deceive her. He wore the robe she’d given him with the same arrogance as he did his jewels. He crushed the rest of the bee beneath his heel.

His gaze held little but madness.

 

_Help me_ , Jupiter thought, but she’d already made her choice.

 

Balem shivered from the collar’s aftereffects, his hands shaking. He wiped them slowly down the sides of his thighs.

 

“Where’s _your_ hive, Mother?”

 

_I’m not your mother_. The words stuck in Jupiter’s throat. All she could do was shake her head, baring her teeth in what she hoped was a deterring snarl. Balem didn’t back down though and Jupiter was suddenly very aware of the railing at her back.

 

The stars were above them. Seven stories of concrete lay below.

 

“What do you want of me?” Balem asked. He approached slowly, one heel-toe movement at a time. His pale skin and his white robe. The electric shine of his collar. He looked almost ethereal under the sky, entreating Jupiter was palms raised high. One was smeared with pollen and gore.

 

“Is this your right?” He asked when Jupiter didn’t answer. “To create me?” Step. “To leave me?” Step. “To return to me and then _run_ from me? To kill me and bring me _BACK!_ ”

 

He shrieked the words, like he had when they’d surrounded themselves with fire. The violence in his throat was enough to give him another shock, but the rest of him remained staggeringly calm. Balem continued to inch forward, Jupiter edging to the left as he went, and within moments they’d changed places, Jupiter with her back to the door and Balem pressed against the railing.

 

It should have made her feel safer. Jupiter didn’t relax her guard.

 

“I didn’t bring you back,” she managed. “I didn’t even know you’d survived. For _months_.” Jupiter laughed, wincing when the high pitch sounded exactly like Balem’s shriek. “You want to know what saved you? _You_ did. That fucking implant. All those people…” Jupiter was shaking, both of them shivering in the cold air. Between her fierce expression and Balem’s half-dressed state, she imagined that others would view this as a lover’s quarrel, and the knowledge only made her laugh harder. “You always want to survive, Balem. It’s what you _do_. You can’t blame me for that.”

 

“You made me.”

 

“ _I’m not your fucking mother!_ ”

 

“You still made me!” Balem howled. “I’m still yours!”

 

“Fine.” Jupiter hissed it, striding forward. Her legs demanded retreat but she forced them to move, stopping only when she could feel the fuzz of Balem’s rob on her arms. She paused, pushing everything down, and pulled Balem into what was, for all intents and purposes, a hug. It hurt them both though, leaving a shared, hollow ache that was foreign to everything that touch should be. Jupiter could smell the electricity sizzling against Balem’s neck—her neck now too—and it reminded her too of mangled flesh. She wanted nothing but to pull back.

 

She felt Balem smile against her though.

 

“You can’t fake it.” He whispered. “Not without my near demise.”

 

“Balem—”

 

“I did love you,” he interrupted. Balem shifted, ending with his mouth not quite pressed to hers.

 

“And I think... I could have learned to love _you_.”

 

Me?

 

Balem threw his hands against Jupiter’s chest and shoved. The movement sent her stumbling back, electricity from the active collar throwing her even farther. Jupiter landed hard on her left hip, neck craning to watch even as she knew what she’d see. The opposite momentum sent Balem toppling over the rail.

 

Jupiter had one glimpse, an image to carry with her: Balem, dressed in white and spidery blue, suspended briefly in the air, the stars shining above him.

 

Then he dropped.

 

There was no sound after that. Not even a strike.

 

Her breathing came in sporadic bursts. Jupiter smacked at her neck until she finally hit her comm. When she did, it occurred to her that there was no in ReGenX hidden in Balem. Not this time. The shock from his push would have killed him regardless. Oh god. Oh god. 

 

Jupiter dropped to her elbows and vomited all over the floor. She watched, crying, as the sickness spread along the base of her telescope.

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

It thinned as it ran, other parts—chunks—sliding to a stop. Jupiter was sure that was how Balem looked now: cold and viscous, chunky, all of it produced from her body.

 

“ _Your Majesty!_ ”

 

“Chicanery.” The name tasted odd to Jupiter. Saying anything aloud hurt. She heard the silence on the other end and knew Chicanery was panicking. Jupiter could just imagine his hands twitching anxiously, nearly clawing at his shirt, and for some reason the image calmed her. She crawled away from her mess.

 

“Chicanery. Caine. Call Caine.”  

 

“… Of course.” He whispered. “Your Majesty, what…?”

 

“Call Caine,” Jupiter said. “Please. Just… get Caine here. _Now_.”

 

A series of faint beeps, Chicanery tapping into the internal communication module all splices had implanted. That lyrical sound caused the air to rush from Jupiter’s lungs. She curled into a ball and then rolled onto her back, her body parallel to the railing.

 

“… Are you okay?”

 

“No.” she murmured. Jupiter shut her eyes. “Stay on the line?”

 

No answer. She didn’t need one. Jupiter held onto the sound of another person breathing.

 

“Sorry,” she said and Jupiter wasn’t exactly sure what she was apologizing for. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She directed it below though.

 

Jupiter held her body exactly as she imagined Balem’s below. She sought solace among the stars.


End file.
